


Fallen Comrades

by mellyb6



Series: Tis a Women's World [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Marsac - Freeform, Mourning, S1Ep4, Savoy, Widow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:15:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4812872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyb6/pseuds/mellyb6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis finds help dealing with Marsac's death. Coda fic for S1 Ep4: The Good Soldier</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen Comrades

**Author's Note:**

> Still inspired by this post about female representation: http://nettlestonenell.tumblr.com/post/114049003597/female-representation
> 
> And this prompt: The widow of a fallen comrade who travels to the garrison monthly to claim her pension.

It's only been a couple of days since Marsac came back into Aramis' life and d'Artagnan decided to help him, thus provoking Constance's ire. He is still bewildered that she forgave him so quickly and did not throw him out of her house permanently. He is even more baffled by her desire to learn how to fight and shoot a pistol. It's a lie to say that he does not like spending more time with her. How is he supposed to avoid getting her hurt when she is always so eager and urging him to fight more fiercely? He does not think her husband would appreciate to see her covered in scratches. It makes her smile, though, and it is the best reward he can ask for. 

She did not ask about what happened to the supposed “cabinet maker” who hid in her house. Perhaps she understood it did not end well from the look on his face when he came back after Aramis killed him. D'Artagnan himself has not seen the other Musketeers since. He had not spend enough time with Marsac to try to appreciate his true nature and mourn him like he probably should. The man assaulted Constance and it's enough to make d'Artagnan despise him. 

He does not know how the others deal with the loss, if it even feels like a loss to them. It's one for Aramis, of that he is certain. In the short few months he has known Athos, Porthos and Aramis, he has always seen them as the best of friends, helping and relying on each other constantly. There is not a day when they are seen apart. Sometimes, one might be missing, but it is never for long. 

Yet, the entire situation with Marsac has shown the deep scars running in the Garrison. It has shown him that loyalty can be questioned and pjeopardize the best of friendship. He has seen how affected Aramis was that Athos and Porthos were not at once ready to believe Marsac and to find out the truth. D'Artagnan knows his friend hurt then, and still may. Perhaps he should have gone to him, attempt to comfort him, but he felt out of place. He was not part of the Musketeers when Savoy happened. He still isn't; he's only lacking the proper commission, though. For the rest, it seems to him that he belongs on the premises. It's his rightful place. Among his friends, among the brothers he hopes he will one day have the chance to refer to as such. 

It's a grey foggy morning when he eventually wanders back to the Garrison. It's bustling with activity, as usual, and it's enough to make him smile. He  _knows_ that he belongs. 

“There you are! We were starting to think that Constance had you locked up in the house.”

“She wanted to throw him out,” Athos corrects, filling a cup of wine for d'Artagnan when he sits on the bench next to Porthos. 

“I thought it better to stay away.”

“Tired of us already?”

d'Artagnan shakes his head, helps himself to the bread on the table. He surveys the courtyard, looking for Aramis, but he's nowhere to be seen. 

“I didn't want to intrude. Where's Aramis?”

“Oh. That.” Porthos frowns when he understands what d'Artagnan is talking about. 

“He'll be fine,” Athos states. 

“Yeah. It's always been hard to think back on Savoy for him, and now that, but...yeah, he'll be all right.” It sounds like he does not quite believe his own words, and it makes d'Artagnan a little sad for their friend. 

“He  _shot_ him, though,” he whispers as if it is a secret not to be overheard. 

The entire regiment knows what happened by now. They all know Marsac came back and tried to kill Captain Tréville. As far as they are concerned, Aramis killed a deserter, a man who once was their comrade but abandoned them in an hour of great need. Few wept for him, Porthos and Athos less than the others. Marsac's desertion had been a huge ordeal for Aramis, almost impossible to overcome and they had always blamed him entirely for it. His death finally meant that they could try to move on. It would take longer for Aramis to see it. 

“It's what he wanted.” d'Artagnan startles at the voice behind him, turning around to find Aramis standing there. There's a purple shadow covering one side of his face, the last reminder Marsac left for him. 

He sits heavily on the bench, takes off his hat and puts it on the table. D'Artagnan does not know what to reply to this but none of the others say anything either. 

“It's for the best, really. He was miserable, but now, he's with the others. It's for the best,” Aramis repeats, forcing himself to be convinced. 

He appreciates the look of concern on his friends' face. He has not seen them much since they buried Marsac. He has been seeking solitude, despite Porthos banging on his door at night to let him in. He should not stay alone when he is mourning. Aramis is perfectly aware he is the only mourning the latest loss to the regiment. Captain Tréville might be, as well, but he could not care less about this. 

“Did Constance forgive you?” he asks, clutching the piece of cheese Porthos puts in his hand. He's not hungry. He has not been for days. The horrid news about Savoy is too much to digest in itself. There's no room or desire for actual nourishment. He plays with the food instead, settles his hands. 

“Yeah. She's....well....she's asked me to teach her how to use a sword.” Porthos bursts out laughing at his bemused face. Athos merely nods. It was only a matter of time before she did, after all. 

“And how many times have you lost since then?” This time, d'Artagnan looks so offended by Porthos' question that it draws a chuckle from Aramis. Dry and bitter, out of place. It sounds wrong. He reaches for the crucifix hanging on his chest. He is spending more time than usual in church, atoning for what he's done, what Marsac's done, atoning for secrets of state and political intrigues which make him sick. 

“Aramis!” 

Four heads look up at the call, at the female voice, the sweet and happy tone. D'Artagnan marvels at how his friend's eyes soften and brighten up when he takes in the woman standing at the top of the stairs leading to Captain Tréville's office. The woman and the small child hiding behind her skirts. 

There's a sad edge to his smile as Aramis stands up quickly, hat and cheese forgotten, but he looks genuinely pleased at the strangers' sudden appearance. 

All the agitation of the last days has made him forget what day it is. It might be time for him to actually collect his commission as well. 

“Hello, Mathilde.” There is no question of impropriety as he hugs her fiercely, holding her close, drawing comfort from her embrace. She chuckles against his shoulder, yet hugs him back. 

Every time he sees her here, it bothers him, because it is a painful reminder that her husband died all these years ago, in that forest, on the frozen ground, buried in the snow, slain because of the Cardinal and his plotting. 

Every time she comes to the Garrison, to collect the pension she is entitled to, it sends daggers to his heart. This is the reason why he does not want to marry, does not want to have children. He cannot bear the idea of leaving cherished people behind if he were to die. 

Her visit could not have come at a better time, though. Not many Muskteers are married, for reasons similar to his. When he had come back to Paris after Savoy, mind shattered, feeling that he should have died as well, there were not many people who understood what he was going through. Mathilde did. Her and the newborn François had left behind. 

There had never been an actual agreement, and Aramis does not think that his fallen comrade would have expected more than a friendly visit to his widow. He felt compelled to help her, to make sure that she did not drift away, that she stayed alive, that she kept on taking care of herself, in spite of her broken heart. Aramis' heart had been broken, too, and his visits to her and the crawling baby had been a balm to his own suffering. 

Aramis sometimes talks about his recurrent nightmares with Porthos and Athos, but they cannot understand, not really. They are supportive and listen because they know it's what he needs. They cannot relate to his emotions. Mathilde can. Back then, she would always listen sympathetically and when she shared her own bad dreams, they sounded so alike, it was unsettling. 

He has not been visiting her as much as he used to in the first years. Perhaps he did not need to. He was definitely wrong. The warmth of holding her close settles him, slows his heartbeat and fills his brain with peace instead of hatred. If only for a few minutes. 

He will not tell her what he has learned, she does not deserve it. She does not deserve the past to be disturbed. She might hear around the Garrison that Marsac was back and is now dead, but he will not be the one to bring it up. Mathilde has never resented his desertion. She knows what happened in the forest, she knows Marsac tried to help before he left. Aramis is the living proof of this. 

“How are you?” she asks against his uniform, her breath fanning over his neck. The way her hands rub his arms, like a mother reassuring her child, tells him that she  _knows_ . 

“It's for the best.”

“He must have been miserable.” She uses his words from earlier, and they are so atuned as far as this cornestone of their lives is concerned. He  _will_ visit her more often. 

“I'm afraid of what is happening to him now. With the others, with...”

“They're brothers. You're all brothers, Aramis. Everything is forgiven if it was done for a good reason.”

“ _If_ he's with them.”

“Where else would he be?” She draws back to study his face, notices the deep worry in his eyes, and combs the hair which has fallen on his forehead. He does not dare utter his dread out loud. “Oh, Aramis. Marsac had been a good soldier before Savoy. You all were. You still are. God will not send him to Hell because of one mishap, how ever great you might think it was.”

“I hope you are right.”

She reaches up to hug him again. He allows himself a few seconds of respite to let all his anxiety pour out and dissolve. 

“How are  _you_ ?” he finally asks. 

“We are fine. It's a bit chilly but this money will buy us some more wood for the fire so there's that. And it'll put bread on the table for the next time you'll visit.” Aramis smiles sheepishly. 

“I've been busy.”

“I'm not blaming you. It's nice to see you finally feeling alive again. Well, not today, obviously, but in general. It would do no good to spend all your time with a poor widow. People would talk.”

“People have been talking for years.” Aramis rolls his eyes. For once, they could not be more wrong about his intentions. “Although you could find someone else they would like to gossip about. It's been five years, after all.”

“I've got a wonderful man already,” she dismisses his suggestion by putting one hand on her son's shoulder. The boy grins from ear to ear when Aramis crouches to his level. 

“Have you been learning your letters, Alphonse?” A small nod rewards his question. “How about numbers?” Another nod. “Excellent! Would you care to show me?” Another eager nod. Aramis scoops him up in his arms, balances him on one shoulder and the courtyard fills with giggles. 

“I'll be back in the afternoon,” he announces to his three friends still at the table. They have been watching the scene and d'Artagnan is dying to ask for more information. He does not care for an elaborate one, he only wants to know who are these persons who managed to transform a pain-stricken Aramis into the delighted Musketeer who secures his hat on his head before striding purposely out of the Garrison, an excited child in his arms and a pleased woman at his side. 

“Aramis is a mystery,” he finally says once they have diseppeared in the crowd. 

“That he is,” Porthos agrees, shaking his head, yet relieved to notice the changes in his friend's behaviour. 

Aramis will be fine. 

 


End file.
